Black Lagoon: Baba Yaga
by 336
Summary: Eight assassins enter an apartment building in Roanapur, kicking off a 15 million dollar typhoon that will shake the cursed city.
1. Ghost

"There it is. That's where the target is staying."

Michael stared across the garbage laden street at the rundown red three story apartment building. It's paint had chipped off leaving huge swaths of brick exposed, the windows had turned yellow and cracked, and there were a notable amount of bullet holes in the bottom half of the structure. No lights, no movement, no one walked by it. It was as if the building had died, an ominous tombstone in the active graveyard that was Roanapur. But that wasn't the only thing he was worried about.

"Team two, in position." Michael announced over the coms as he and 3 other assassins gathered near an alleyway and tried their best to blend in, only to end up sticking out like a sore thumb. To the left of the ally where a group of scantily clad prostitutes smoking their lives away while two men harassed them under a flashing neon sign depicting a naked woman. To the right were five drunks laughing their asses off while holding their open bottles to their crotches and pouring liquor all over the sidewalk. Him and his team were wearing expensive white and black suits lined with cutting edge body armor. The only similarity between his group and the degenerates that lined this sidewalk was that they were all armed. Night life at its worst.

"Roger." A deep, Russian accented voice replied. Misha, leader of team 1. The Veteran hitman who had put this crazy mission together. Michael could see him and his team of four across the street, melding into the shadows on either side of the apartment. "We move in 30 seconds. Check your weapons."

"I've got a bad feeling about this." Thomas said, reaching into his suit and checking his pistol. His voice was calm, but sweat glistened off his neck and bald head. The others had the same look about them. Steady, but grim and superstitious to the point of refusing to use their targets name. In truth, Michael had doubts he was ready for such a task. This hit was like nothing he'd ever done before, and the stakes were higher than they'd ever been.

Killing the target would be a monumental task. So monumental, in fact, that 8 assassins, including him, had agreed to put aside greed for the sole purpose of the mission. Even then when… If they managed to kill their target, there was no guarantee that their partnership wouldn't immediately shatter as they vied to be the sole benefactor of this contract. This alliance was a fragile one, and could lead to this cursed city taking notice, which was the last thing anyone wanted.

"Relax." Michael responded, checking his Beretta 92FS and confirming that it was still in pristine condition. An oldie, but reliable. "Think of the reward and the fame that comes from surviving this." Out of the corner of his eye Michael caught one of the drunks staring at the group. The man's eyes were clouded, but Michael caught a hint of malice and jealousy in them. He made sure to slide out his weapon just enough for the man to catch a glimpse before sliding it back into its holster. The drunken man spat dismissively, then turned away.

"That's all I can think about." Amelia replied, checking her makeup and red hair in an expensive looking pocket mirror. "I started this hunt when it was 7 mil' ya know. Remind me to thank him for bumping it up to 15 mil' before I put a bullet in his head."

"Yeah, but relaxing is a tall order there Michael." Cicero spoke, his face portraying an intense feeling of caution despite the sunglasses that supposedly hid his emotions. "You realize who we're dealing with. I want the High Table to recognize me as much as the next man but there's a reason I'm in this group instead of Misha's. I plan on surviving this."

Michael smirked. There was a high chance that Cicero would be the one to turn on the group first and he was poor at hiding it. "Interesting plan. We'll see how that works out for you."

"This is team 1. We are moving in." Misha announced.

Team 1 moved all at once, drawing their weapons and, just for a moment, appearing in the dim light of the street lamps before quietly entering the unlocked apartment.

Michael and his team ran up to the curb. He was a step onto the road when the sudden flash of headlights made him lurch back. Michael was surprised to find not only a car, but a Red 1969 Plymouth Road Runner speeding down the road, only to remember that this city was host to a variety of classic cars, most of which sat in decay. As it passed by, he saw his face reflected in the passenger seat window.

He looked like he was shitting his pants. His face was pale, his eyes were bloodshot from strain, his brow was folded into a dark scared expression. Behind Michael's reflection was the face of another man. Japanese. Bored, but curious. Then, just like that, the car was gone down the road.

Michael was snapped out of it by Amelia, who shouldered him to the side as she charged across the street. "No time to waste slowpoke! I've got the back!"

"R-Right!" Michael joined his team in front of the apartment building. Thomas and Amelia darted to the left while Cicero took the right. Michael drew his weapon and took a position right beside the now open door of the building, making sure not to lean on it's grimy exterior.

Dammit! And here he had thought he was keeping calm, but one car was all it took to knock him into full panic mode. Michael spent a few seconds taking a few deep breaths, calming himself. "Relax." He whispered. There was a damn good reason Misha had approached him for this job. He had killed hundreds before this and he'd kill hundreds after. Surely one man...

...

"Team 1, check in." Michael said over the coms.

"Amelia here. I'm at the back door. No sign of the target."

"Thomas checking in. Left side is barren."

"This is Cicero. I'm on the right side. Nothing here but that rake."

Good. Looks like they were in the clear, which meant that either the target had slipped through their fingers, or that there was going to be a lot of gunfire in the next minute.

Misha's voice was heard once again, this time low and cautious. "This is team 1. Floor one is clear. Any sign of him team 2?"

"Negative, nothing here." Michael replied.

"Roger. We're moving to the next floor. Expect update in one minute thirty seconds." And then Misha was gone again.

"Do you think he'll try and jump from the roof?" Asked Amelia. "The buildings to the sides of this one are only one sto-"

"Shut up Amelia." Cicero snapped.

The coms became silent immediately. Good.

Their job was to sit here and prevent the target from escaping, preferably quietly. The last thing they needed was a chase through the streets. More variables meant more things that could go wrong. Containment was the game, which was more easily said than done.

Michael looked at his watch. 12:01AM. Leave it to Misha to time an op perfectly. He then surveyed his surroundings. To his immediate relief there wasn't much in his general vicinity, at least, nothing he hadn't seen from across the street. Dislodged bricks and dust took up the majority of the space between the from of the apartment and the sidewalk, which was still devoid of people. Odd. The other side of the street was jam packed with idiots, so why was everyone avoiding this side of the street. Deep down Michael knew why, but he kept himself from thinking about it by staring at the group of drunks he'd flashed his gun to earlier.

They had taken out a revolver and two of them were playing a game of Russian Roulette, but the man who had approached him earlier wasn't participating, and was instead leaning up against a wall for a smoke looking less drunk than the previous minute. Suspicious. Michael glanced at his watch again, silently wishing for the mission to be over.

12:02AM.

And yet there hadn't been a peep coming from inside the building.

"Everyone check in." Michael ordered. "Nothing here. The people aren't paying to much attention either."

"Nothing." Amelia said. Her tone had switched from enthusiastic to hardened.

"Zilch." Thomas reported. Was his voice shaking?

"Nada." Cicero stated.

Michael checked his watch yet again. Still 12:02AM. Misha should be checking in any second.

He sighed, then took another look around. No change.

He looked again. Still, no change.

He looked yet again, this time looking into the shadows the lamp posts casted. Nothing… Or was there? No no. Nothing was parked here. Couldn't be.

A sense of dread welled up in Michael's chest. Paranoia was finally creeping its way through his head. Even the trash can to the side looked like it had eyes peering out of it. Every second more adrenaline was pumped into his system, making every second an agonizing wait. Yet with every moment came only the soft breeze and soft chatter from across the street. There had to be a sign. Something needed to happen.

 _ **BANG!**_

Michael jumped, raising his weapon and looking to the apartment, only to realize that the sound had come from across the street. He turned and sure enough one of the Russian Roulette players had dropped dead, a revolver in his hands. Two people were upset, two people were cheering and exchanging money, and remaining one was continuing to smoke. The apartment was still silent.

"What was that?" Amelia asked.

"Russian roulette. Some poor sap lost. False alarm." Michael said, lowering his weapon.

Then he brought his hand up for another look at his watch, only to freeze. 12:03AM. Not a word from Misha. Michael ended up bringing his hand back up to his ear, switching channels.

"Team 1 this is Team 2. You haven't checked in. What's the situation?" Michael said.

No response.

"Team 1, please respond."

There was a crackle, then Misha's voice sounded through. "Da. Kill confirmed. Mission accomplished."

Michael sighed in relief, but for some reason he didn't relax. His instincts were setting off raging alarms. What was it? What was wrong? The voice was… Misha's… Almost Misha's. If Michael hadn't been on high alert he would have believed it to, but no. This was wrong. He finished his sigh before speaking again. "Let's all meet out front. We need to decide who gets what portion of the cut with everyone who is left."

The channel remained on for a few seconds to long, sitting in an uncanny silence until it cut. Michael immediately switched back to Team 2. "Misha's team is down."

"What? Didn't you hear hi-" Thomas started.

"That wasn't him. It was him." Michael said, his voice almost automatically dropping low.

"El? Maldiciendo nuestro suerte!" Cicero spat.

 _ **Him?**_ _Curse our luck!_

It didn't take long for Michael to hear the footsteps of his teammates rounding the two corners of the building. Pretty soon they were standing at the front door.

"How could you tell?" Amelia asked.

"Voice is slightly off, and the timing was poor." Informed Michael. Everyone nodded. They all knew that Misha was very punctual about things. It was one of his primary qualities.

"So, what now?" Thomas asked, his face wary and his eyes constantly scanning the broken windows.

"Don't give me those faces. We cannot pass up the opportunity to gain 15 million!" Amelia said, taking a position besides the door. "I say we go in."

"What? You can't be serious!" Reclaimed Cicero. He was keeping his composure for the most part, but his eyes and voice revealed his fear.

"The High Table itself gave us first pick on this lead Cicero." Michael's voice was seething with anger. "If we were to tuck our tails between our legs and run now… How would that look? Our careers would be over along with our lives! You want to join our target Cicero?" He looked Cicero dead in the eye, countering his fear with decades of discipline. "Are you a professional assassin, or just another sewer rat? Because I'm starting to belie-"

"Alright alright. You've made your point." Cicero looked away dejectedly.

"Good." Michael turned to the rest of his team. "Thomas. Did you see any movement in those windows?"

"No. Nothing from both sets of stairs." Answered Thomas.

Michael nodded. "We move in. Fast and silent. Remember why your here, remember what's at stake, and remember who our target is." He then turned to Amelia. "Take point."

Amelia nodded, then walked right through the already open door into the apartment building. She quickly swung her pistol from side to side, scanning the hallway that made up the front part of the first floor, then nodded to signal that the way was clear.

Thomas and Cicero entered next, leaving Michael outside. He hesitated at the door, looking back, then up towards the night sky. But there was no moon. No stars. No light in the dark. Just the burning lights of the city turning the clouds above into a fiery orange. With another deep breath Michael turned and took his first step into death's lair.

The inside of the apartment had decayed just as much as the outside. Dust and holes covered the wooden floor which creaked and groaned with every step. It was going to be impossible to move quietly here. Luckily he had no plans to stay on the first floor.

"Cicero, Thomas, we're skipping the first floor. Take the stairs to the left." Michael said, gesturing down the hall. "Amelia and I will take the set on the right so he can't sneak around behind us. And go radio silent from here on out. We need to minimize our sound." Thomas nodded, then took Cicero down the hall. Michael turned to Amelia who was still staring intently down the hallway. "Let's go."

The two assassins cautiously made their way to the stairs listening for any hint of movement not their own. They walked to the second floor without issue, but stopped right before the last step up. Another hallway stretched out before them, this one in a similar state of decay. The walls were peeling, and in some cases, gaping holes appeared to have been torn in them. Four doors also dotted the walls, all of them open and deteriorating. One of the doors was missing it's upper half from what appeared to be a shotgun blast. The second floor was the same as the first, but with one glaring difference.

"What's up with the floor?" Amelia whispered.

"No clue." Replied Michael.

The floor was still in a state of disrepair, having missing boards and dents in it, but the orange glare from the broken windows revealed that it had been shined, polished, and cleaned. No dust existed here either, preventing the windows from illuminating to much and casting long shadows over the entire floor. This was bad. Their target could be hiding anywhere.

"Whoever comes, whoever it is, he'll kill them. He'll kill them all. Shit." Amelia whispered again. "I'm starting to think we should have listened to that old man."

"He's been on the run for over two months. It's true Winston knew him personally, but everyone has their breaking point." Michael answered.

"You think he's at that point?" Amelia asked.

Michael didn't answer. He just kept his gun pointed and took a few steps forward to the first door. The floorboards creaked behind him indicating that Amelia was close behind, but also reminding him that this floor was incredibly inconvenient for them. One wrong step and he would know they were coming. Maybe he already did.

The tip of Michael's Beretta entered first, then the rest of his body. He quickly scanned the room.

Two couches, one broken. A small drawer that looked like it once had a television on top of it, a crumpled lamp in the corner, a sizable hole in the wall to their left and another door to the right. No sign of activity, nor any sign that team 1 was even here.

Michael stepped to the side of the doorway to let Amelia in, then started slowly making his way to the right. Amelia went left and in unison they moved around the couches. After giving the room a good sweep and confirming no one else occupied it, they met behind the second couch. Michael pointed to the door, then a few more quick motions with his hands.

' _I'm checking out this room. Watch my back._ '

Amelia nodded, then turned to point her weapon at both the door they came in and the hole in the wall.

Michael walked up to the other door. Normally opening a door wouldn't be in their best interests. To much sound would give them away. But this door was clean as well and it's hinges where oiled, perfect for opening silently and to suspicious to pass up.

Keeping his gun pointed with one hand he reached for the door knob with the other, grabbing it gently before softly turning it. There wasn't even a click as it opened. Perfect. Michael slowly pushed the door open, his gun peeking through the crack. There appeared to be a window in the room, shining dim light on a shower. The curtain was drawn back revealing it to be empty. Michael pushed more bringing the white tiled floor and a sink into view. But there was something else there.

Adrenaline shot through Michael's veins as his instincts screamed danger. Inhaling sharply, his gun snapped into position ready to take out the face in the dark. Only then did he realize that he was staring at his own face in a cracked and blurry mirror. Michael paused for only a second, then quickly stepped into the room, swinging his gun over the unoccupied toilet to point behind the door. Nothing. No one but him was here. But something still had the voice in the back of his head yelling at him.

Michael examined the room again, this time more carefully. When he looked at the mirror again, he noticed four black splotches on the side of it. A hand print. A bloody one. Michael reached out and grabbed the mirror, pulling it back. There, atop the shelves of the medicine cabinet, sat a dozen brown bottles. The blue label on all of them was just visible, and read Hydrogen Peroxide.

"The floor…" Michael whispered.

Hydrogen Peroxide was an antiseptic, oxidizer, and bleaching agent. He couldn't count how many times he'd used it to make sure there was no trace of spilt blood after a kill, and this entire floor had been swept clean.

He turned to leave the bathroom immediately, but when he exited Amelia was nowhere to be seen. Michael froze for a second, then raised his gun and did another quick sweep of the room, only to turn up with nothing. No trace of Amelia. It was as if she hadn't existed in the first place.

A cold sweat started forming on Michael's head. Where the hell had she gone? Like all of them, she was an expert in this field, despite her cocky personality. There was no way Amelia would just walk off, which only left one other possibility, however impossible it seemed. He had to assume the worst case scenario. Amelia was gone, and _he_ was indeed present.

Suddenly the sound of a plate crashing to the ground echoed through the complex. Down the hall a single light flickered to life causing Michael to silently walk to the doorway. He slowly looked around the corner into the hallway. The light was coming from the door at the end of the hall to the right. It was dim, and flickered on the brink of death. Then a shadow briefly passed over it, and another crash was heard.

Taking a deep breath, Michael stepped forward into the hallway, seeing the shadow pass in front of the light once more before advancing. With each passing step his heart pumped faster and faster, rising to a deafening drone as he took his position just outside the door, keeping his feet just barely out of the light cast of the floor. Then, his hands started to shake.

Damn. Why did he have to kill this man? A man so infamous that the High Table itself was afraid, even if they didn't want to admit it. Michael remembered all the places he'd been. All the people he had killed. Out of all of them, none had scared him more than now.

A flash. A green meadow with a lone log cabin at the edge of it. Two kids playing by it. One a girl, and one a boy. Both of them were so familiar. Michael knew them. He wanted to join them. He wanted to apologize for leaving like he did, telling them that he'd gotten to greedy. But they were lost to him now. No one got out of the game once they were in. The gangs and criminals of the underworld were his family now. A family built on money and murder. There was no turning back. The contract was out and he was in. That's right. Just another contract. Just another dead body to add to the pile.

Michael quelled the shaking in his hands. His heart and breathing slowed to a crawl, and he stood composed once more. There was just one last ingredient…

The shadow passed again. Time seemed to slow as Michael shoved his gun through the doorway, almost leaping into the room. He scanned the room for humanoid shapes, only for his eyes to lock onto the eyes of something very different. It was sitting there in the middle of a kitchen, it's brown fur almost blending into the rotting wooden floor with eyes that stared right through him. A blue nosed pit bull.

Michael experienced a moment of pure terror. He could feel consequences of falling for this distraction mounting behind him. A breath cold as ice prickling the hairs on the back of his neck, as if the Grim Reaper's scythe was being pressed up against his skin. Michael sprung forward, then turned on his heel to face his foe just as the light flickered out.

Beretta pointed, Michael tried to fire into the dark only for his wrist to go numb as a searing sensation went through it. He managed to notice his gun fall from his hand just before a fist impacted with his face, sending him stumbling across the room. Michael fell on what he felt was a counter, his still functioning left hand falling onto a familiar shape. A set of knives. Michael grabbed one and spun around, his eyes adjusting just in time to see a patch of darkness that was darker than the rest. He swung the blade and the patch jumped back just out of reach. Keeping the momentum, Michael stepped forward and thrust the kitchen knife into the black, but a hand quickly clasped itself upon Michael's wrist and a shoulder to the chest followed slamming the now knifeless assassin into a refrigerator.

Michael opened his mouth to grunt feeling the back of his ribs crack, but was quickly silenced as a knife flew into his throat slamming him back yet again. Another knife, this one undoubtedly the kitchen knife he had held only a few moments earlier, found its way into his chest. Michael gurgled, pain and fear flooding his body as he started to slowly collapse to the floor. The shadow now loomed above him, formless and unbeatable. A single beam of light from a nearby window illuminated a part of his opponents face. A single brown eye surrounded by a patch of white skin. It watched Michael start to die with a look so intense it seemed to pierce his very soul. And then, even that started to fade to black. His vocal cords were cut, so Michael could only mouth the title of the one who had slain him.

 _ **Baba Yaga**_

With the sound of Michael slumping over the apartment fell silent once more. The eight assassins that had entered the building were never seen again, and the ghost continued to haunt. Outside no one took notice, moving on with their night of debauchery. Everyone except for one man. A man who was still standing sober with his drunk friends, lighting a cigarette with one hand and bringing a payphone to his ear with the other.


	2. Revy

"You piece of shit!"

Rebecca Lee fell backwards out the front door of her apartment building. Like all apartment buildings in a ghetto it was run down, smelled terrible, and had a drunk man raging inside them.

"Come back when you've got some actual booze brat!" Rebecca then received a beer bottle to the head which pinged unceremoniously off her head and bounced into the street. A door was slammed and once again Rebecca was alone on the streets of New York. She laid there in the cigarette bud laiden street contemplating life for almost a minute before slowly rising to her feet.

She reached for her belt, pulling out a gun and staring at it with cold strained eyes. Rebecca had gotten it off a dealer for cheap yesterday. Some sort of revolver. The model didn't matter too much, just that it worked.

For the briefest moment she considered running back in there with the thing, but as soon as the thought crossed her mind an immense fear rocked through her body. Rebecca shook, her revolver jittering slightly. There was no way it would work, and if she didn't get her father more alcohol then she was screwed. A night being used as a punching bag was all but assured, not to mention the lack of food and water. Not that such a thing wasn't going to happen anyways. Her father had just lost his job. They had no money. The man had decided to drink it all away again.

Rebbeca pocketed her revolver and started moving down the sidewalk. She sobbed silently and with enough practice not to attract attention from the residents of Chinatown. No one here would help her. Not even the police. And because of that and the money shortage Rebecca only had one option left.

There was a bar not too far down the street. She knew the name once but had forgotten and didn't bother with names now. It was a cheap place full of scum like her. There was no plan on how Rebecca would rob it, only that she would.

Resigning to the fact there was no other choice Rebecca entered the alleyway bordering the targeted establishment and surveyed it. Just trash, polluted air, a few rats, and most importantly no people. Luckily a backdoor did exist and she pushed herself up against it to listen. Laughter, a bit of shouting, the place was open alright, and from the sound of it probably full of patrons. Rebecca grasped the handle of the doorway and turned it. Unlocked.

She froze and stood, unable to pull on the grimy handle and enter. Something in the back of her mind was screaming at her about cops, about laws, about what a gun could do. It was normally dull, but right at that moment it became as loud as a thunderstorm. There was no return, however. Rebecca swung the door open and thrust her gun into the room beyond.

It was some sort of storage room stacked with crates of bottles containing several dozen varieties of drink, the only thing lighting it a dim flickering lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. There was a clear throughway leading up to a door on the other end, probably for taking out trash. Rebecca didn't give it much thought. All she really knew right now was that she might get away with this without using her gun.

Grabbing one of the empty crates Rebecca got to work throwing as much bottled liquid as she could carry into it. Small, large, brown, red, square, round, she resolved to carry a little of everything. Perhaps that would please her father more and keep his hand away a bit longer. Or maybe it would piss him off more not having enough of what he wanted.

Her anxiety built as she moved towards the far end of the room towards the door. Just as she set the crate down Rebecca heard shouting coming from the next room. A bottle was dropped and shattered on the ground, then there was a gunshot followed by several more. Rebecca lept back as the door was blown open by several gunshots to the body and handle. Seering bright yellow light flooded her vision, but as her eyes quickly adjusted, Rebecca Lee saw clearly for the first time in a long long decade.

Infront of her beyond a shot up bar counter riddled with glass and spilt alcohol, several men wearing custom tailored suits were fighting to the death. One man, bald with a large Eagle tattoo on his neck, slid to a stop on top of the counter and rolled to stand on the opposite side of it. Taking a moment to recover from whatever blow had befallen him the man then pulled out a pistol, only to be beset upon by his enemy.

Another man jumped into view and grabbed the bald man's forearm, forcing it away from him as the pistol took a few shots. The newcomer used his other hand to grab a #2 pencil from the counter and quickly lodged the pointy end into the bald man's neck. The pencil made an audible _pop_ as it was ripped from the man's flesh. It must have hit something vital because the bald man collapsed to his knees, his neck spewing large amounts of blood in time with the pumps of his slowing heart, then fell to the ground out of sight.

The one who murdered him didn't take the time to see that, however, and quickly batted away another pistol that had just been thrust into his face from the other direction. It was a blur of motion, but Rebecca was pretty sure the pencil was then thrust into the next man's arm, jabbed through his cheek, then speared through his chest. The second man barely had time to cry out before the pencil was dislodged and blood spurted out of the wound in his heart.

A third man ran up behind the pencil wielder holding a wooden chair above his head. The chair was brought down but missed it's nimble target and shattered against the counter, spraying wooden chunks and dust all over it's once crystal clear surface. The chair man was dispatched with shocking efficiency as the momentum of his swing was used by his opponent to smash his head against the counter. Waiting for him on that counter was the deadly point of the #2 pencil which embedded it's full length into his skull. The man responsible for three deaths at the hands of a pencil stopped, still holding the back of his most recent victim's head. Then, in a move that made her flinch, his eyes snapped to look up at Rebecca.

All he must have seen was a small purple-haired kid dressed in torn and dirty clothing cowering in a doorway. But what she saw petrified her.

The man was somewhere in his early twenties. White skin, clean shaven, and slicked back black hair. His black suit was unbuttoned revealing a white shirt and shiny obsidian tie stained with blood that was not his own. But his eyes. His eyes were like glass, cold and calculating. There was no tiredness, no strain, no weakness in them. Only the past and future deaths of a thousand people. He looked as if he was considering killing Rebecca as well, and she was certain the revolver in her hand wasn't helping her case. She could only keep still for in her very being she knew that if she made a move this murderer would end her without a second thought.

"John!" The shocked voice of some russian mobster called out. The gunshots had stopped. "We're leaving!"

"Right…" The man spoke flatly, betraying no emotion. He pulled a set of vaguely triangular Ray Ban sunglasses from his suit and slid them over his eyes without breaking eye contact. Then he turned and was gone.

Rebecca finally breathed, her trance broken. The sound of police sirens drawing close finally met her ears. The smell of blood and gunpowder registered in her nose. The sight of the body filled room in front of her came into focus. She bolted.

Leaving the crate behind Rebecca ran as fast as her legs could carry her, which turned out to be too fast. She slammed into the far end of the room then tripped through the doorway, hitting the wet pavement hard. It was raining. She hadn't noticed before.

The sound of her revolver clattering to the ground could be heard and Rebecca caught a glimpse of it sliding under a dumpster. Red and blue lights reflected off the puddles around her and she looked up to see two police officers rushing towards her. Rebecca tried to run but by the time she was on her feet they had already descended, tackling her to the ground.

"Get off me shitlord!" She screamed.

"What's that? I think I hear the sound of resisting arrest!" One of them said with a disgusting slimy tone.

"We ain't about to cross the mob. Let's just take her instead. Keep up appearances. Make it look like we did something." The other smiled.

"Yeah… I got some ideas. Let's have a bit of fun back at the station." The first one smiled wider, his eyes full of lust.

Rebecca's eyes widened in horror. "No! Stop!" She started screaming and kicking but the familiar feeling of a fist in her face stopped her. Rebecca went limp out of instinct, then continued struggling until both cops kicked her in the gut and tossed her against the wall, laughing as they slid cuffs around her wrists. The police officers dragged her off to their car and what came next Rebecca attempted to block from her memory for the rest of her life.

The police car drove back to Chinatown the next morning and dumped Rebecca out. She cried, curled up into a ball on the curb. Many people passed, but no one said anything or even stopped. After what could have been anywhere from five minutes to an hour Rebecca finally rose.

She was right next to the bar, a familiar alleyway looming before her. On the other end of the alley the sun was rising shining a brilliant light between the buildings and casting a hue of reds, oranges, and purples through the dispersing clouds. Illuminated by this were two rats in the seemingly darker alley, one eating the weaker rat's twitching lifeless body.

Rebecca walked over, the alive rat scurrying away, and looked under the dumpster. Sure enough the revolver was still there. Retrieving it she began the long march home, her head filled with thoughts of the beating she was going to receive for failing her task. At this point, however, she would rather accept the beating than try to steal again.

She solemnly opened the door to her apartment, walked up a flight up stairs, and arrived in the living room. It was a tiny living space full of garbage and dirt. A refrigerator, a TV, and two beds at the far end consisted of the first room. The bathroom was the second. There was no third.

To Rebecca's surprise there was a fresh crate of beer sitting near the fridge, lazily thrown there in a drunken haze. Her father had gotten drunk without her help. Where had he even found the money to get it?

The man himself was laying in his bed which was bordered by several empty bottles. An open window next to him blew in a gentle breeze.

"Reb. That you?" He asked in a deep gravelly voice.

She paused for a moment, then stepped forward. "Yeah…"

"Fucking cunt. Where were you last night?!" He growled, raising his voice.

"I… I was arrested." Rebecca started to cry again. "They didn't even know I did anything. They just… Took me. B-back to their station. Into a cell… And just… Raped me. Over and over…"

Her father exhaled loudly. "Stupid. Well while you're here, get me another drink."

"What?" Rebecca looked up, a lightning bolt jolting through her body.

"I said get me another beer!" Her father yelled.

Rebecca stared. She knew the man was terrible and unloving, but not even that got an ounce of sympathy from him?

Slowly, carefully, Rebecca Lee came to a realization. The man she called her father, a man she had feared above all, didn't scare her anymore. He was just lying there, shielding his tired hungover eyes from the sun. Compared to the man back in the bar, John, her father was pathetic. Sad. Vulnerable. All she felt now was anger. Seething relentless anger. All this time… Why did he even keep her around? Just to torture her? Beat her for hours on end over the smallest things because he could? Control every moment of her life for beer?

Rebecca walked up to her bed, grabbing her pillow.

"Reb… Get me a drink you little bi-" Rebecca slammed the pillow down onto her father's face then rammed the end of her revolver down onto it. Feathers exploded from the pillow as she pulled the trigger, some flying into the room, others out the open window.

"GO TO HELL!" She yelled at the top of her lungs.

Then, after watching blood seep onto the bed, Revy backed up and let go of the revolver. She stared at her handiwork regretting that she hadn't done this sooner. As the feathers from her makeshift silencer tumbled through the wind into the sky, Revy reflected. For the first time in her life she felt free.


End file.
